By Liz Thomas Pattara
Death,
Comrade of the slain,
The dark-visaged grandeur
Shrouded in mystery.
He runs amok the warfront,
Calling the perished souls
To him, the anticipated stranger
Whose embrace few yearns.
Vengeance,
Progeny of the slain,
Appeals to the mighty Ares,
The army lies in wait.
Trickery, Cunning, and Selfishness,
Overlords of the pawns,
Whose lust for blood and the ensuing madness
Blinds them to their wrongs.
Clammy with pain,
Blood and gore coats their broken bodies,
"Mercy ! " they cry in vain
To the battle-hardened men with benumbed hearts.
By Liz Thomas Pattara
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